Blurred Eve
by Darken Every Legend
Summary: 'Red - the colour of angry men.' Harry Potter took vengeance too far, and he must pay the price... Warning: death, revenge, intoxication… you name it. Written for totallynotsuperman.


**Hi guys! So, some of you will probably know that I am doing this for the 750** **th** **reviewer on my PJO/HP crossover Persassy the Professor.** **totallynotsuperman** **won the competition and asked for a story where Percy killed Harry.**

 **I appreciate there are probably Harry Potter fans out there thinking "What? Why?"**

 **Harry in this will be a little OOC, warning you, otherwise there wouldn't be much reason for Percy to kill him, so please refrain from murdering me.**

 **Harry**

Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the saviour of the wizarding world, et cetera, et cetera, was having a bad day.

Earning a position as an Auror even without the grades, Harry had soared straight into a desirable post at the newly reformed Ministry of Magic – and then he'd fallen into problems.

Never having actually been taught about the world by anyone, Harry was both bad with accounts, bad with people, and bad at staying out of trouble – nothing changed there. The years of fame had taken their toll – he'd started ordering just a little much Firewhiskey, bossing his clients and workers around a little too much, shrinking away from the world with sharp retorts and a cart full of non-sarcastic sarcasm.

He knew Hermione worried about him, but, _what did she know?_ he thought moodily, perched on a stool in the Leaky Cauldron – his usual haunt – with a cloak pushed over his head so to hide his identity. No one here, he thought rather savagely, had experienced what he had. No one here had fought Voldemort – unless they were a ghost who'd died in the process. No one here understood him, and even his supposed best friends, Ron and Hermione, had been distant lately.

Although, the main reason for his anger was that Ginny Weasley, the girl who he had going to propose to, the girl who was _his,_ had become engaged.

To Dean Thomas, of all people.

Technically, he guessed he had been the one who'd broken them up in the first place, but, still. He was clearly an idiot. He wasn't of good enough heritage for any pureblood witch. He was probably a drunk, and besides, the fact they hadn't worked first time around was a testament to the fact they clearly were not meant to be together. Sure, he knew they'd been dating, but it hadn't seemed like reality… Ginny was Harry's.

Scowling, Harry's brooding eyes stared at the surface of his drink as he swished it around the tankard a little. The murky, dull liquid remained irritating devoid of an answer to his problems. Sudddenly annoyed by it, he tipped his head back and swallowed the fiery substance in one go, tipping back his head so far he barely felt a thing as the putrid alcohol slipped down his throat.

The barman's practised hand reached over the table and expertly refilled it. Barely noticing, Harry lifted it to his lips again, a wonderful numbing sensation overcrowding his senses.

Huh.

He didn't need Ron or Hermione. He wasn't stupid. He could do this one little thing by himself, to win back Ginny.

His mouth burned with the ferocity of chilli peppers, but suddenly he felt… alert. As if someone had slipped a bottle of Felix Felicis combined with Essence of Insanity into his drink, but of course he wasn't insane… just driven with desire.

Harry stumbled out of the pub, earning concerned glances from a group of elderly witches wearing disgusting woollen robes from what would appear to be an age so dark that no one could see colour – he wasn't sure why else they would team orange with lime green and a murky maroon colour – and slipped out of Diagon Alley and back into the busy London streets, filled with flashing lights and swirling snow, excited figures running into the road clad in warm hats and mittens.

Ottery St Catchpole was the place where the Weasleys all lived – minus those who had left home, leaving an ageing Molly and Arthur, Percy Weasley, now working from the Burrow, George in the holidays, and also Ginny. He figured he could probably Apparate to Devon… better not overstretch himself, though… he'd already had too much to drink…

Unless, of course, she'd already gone away with Dean. Harry's lips curled up like the snout of a werewolf, leaving passers-by with the vague impression they'd encountered an escaped lunatic from a mental asylum who thought that Halloween was still on.

In fact, it was Christmas Eve; he suddenly remembered this with a burst of clarity. He couldn't think how he'd forgotten.

Christmas Eve, and his parents remained dead, and all the ghosts of his past were screaming in protracted, torturous lamentation. Regrets. He had so many of them now…

A fat flake of snow landed in his eye, and he swiped it off vigorously. Damn the consequences, he was Apparating now… the world was already spinning and his throat was painfully tight…

Harry took a choked breath and realised he'd spun and crashed into a heap of snow piled near a shop window. Across the street, a little boy dressed all in blue tugged at his mummy's hand and pointed, giggling, but she didn't even turn around.

Flushed red with humiliation and the biting cold of winter, Harry stumbled up, catching his foot slightly on his cloak, and spun into the familiar darkness again… his windpipe was tight… he was falling through nothing…

Harry awoke several minutes later, passed out in the middle of a completely unfamiliar street buried in even deeper snow.

"Hello?"

He blinked blearily to see a face peering down at him… a man's face, about his age or maybe a little younger… his eyes were a curious, shifting shade of aquamarine, although perhaps that was just Harry's sickening, pounding headache marring things a little.

"Um… do you need help? You look a little-"

"Shut up," Harry slurred, climbing to his feet with an unsteady gait. He pulled his wand from his sleeve, muttering, "Levirosa!"

A brown jet of light flew wildly from his wand and created an explosion of grey light a few metres away, creating a crater in the snow.

"Oops…" he gave a small, unamused laugh. "I meant…"

The man in front of him was watching, eyes wide with surprise and something else – a steely resignation. Before Harry could react, he dived for his arm, pinning him to the snow and grabbing the holly wand from his hand.

He snapped it.

Harry's head suddenly cleared momentarily, and he was standing in a street in a completely strange place, and some Muggle stranger had just broken his wand. On. Purpose.

He tried to say something, but it came out in a small, half-sob. "What…"

Something shifted on the stranger's arm, and Hrary caught the merest glimpse of a dark, black curling tattoo.

The Dark Mark. It had to be. The sign of Voldemort, his great enemy, and the symbol of all he had lost.

Then the rage overtook him, and he launched himself at the Death Eater, biting and kicking and punching indiscriminately, when he remembered his last, Auror-style weapon – something he'd picked up with a group of fellow new Aurors, Ron included, when they'd found a Dark Arts antique shop and dared each other to take one item.

Harry reached into his belt and pulled out a short dagger, gleaming with Dark Runes and whorls of inscriptions.

He raised it before the man could react and slashed towards his throat, releasing all the anger and bitterness he felt. Dean's face flickered before his eyes.

The man's eyes flashed, and suddenly there was a sword in his hands – he tried to parry the blow, maybe, but Harry's arms were suddenly weak. He dropped the blade as the man countered with extraordinary force, bringing the sword down. His strange, shifting eyes widened; he tried to stop, maybe; Harry didn't know; but the sword sliced through his chest like butter.

Red. Red was all he saw _. Red, the colour of angry men_.

Ginny's face flashed before his eyes, her flaming hair, as red as blood, he realised only now, as red as broken hearts, flying around her face.

Then he lost all he had left.

 **Percy**

Red. Not crumbling sand, as of a monster, or even the golden ichor of the gods.

Painstakingly mortal red.

He fell backwards, reeling – the mortal who'd just tried to murder Percy Jackson.

But he'd murdered him instead.

Something akin to guilt, but far, far worse, kindled in Percy's chest. In all his years, he'd killed people, but never a mortal man.

Percy bent to retrieve the dagger the man had dropped before death. Then he extended his arm, and slammed it into the ground.

 **Hope you liked it? I know, angsty, but… I enjoyed writing it for some very odd reason.**

 **Please review!**


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